Chapter 12 Jasmine and cheap cloves
Malach
The pack was behind me in the forest. One hundred fifty of them, a mix of seasoned fighters and new pups, their fur shining like polished jet under the full moon. We ran, a river of muscle and teeth, through the Appalachian woods, our panting breaths a rhythmic counterpoint to the crunch of leaves under our paws.
Jed was right, a restless pack meant trouble. The run was necessary to bleed off the excess energy before it turned inward.
We ran for hours, pushing ourselves to the limit. We hunted, a stag for the older pack mates, a few rabbits for the pups, the thrill of the chase a temporary balm for the ache in my chest. The thrill didn't last; it was never enough. With every mile, my thoughts returned to her.
After our full moon run, The Hollow had filled with people from everywhere. The sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses spilled out from every corner. I walked in, and the noise dropped a level, the crowd parting for me.
I headed straight for the cell downstairs.
I found her on her feet, pacing the small space like a caged wolf. She’d torn a strip from the hem of the shirt she wore and was using it to tie her hair back, her movements economical and precise. She stopped when she saw me, her chin lifting, those frost-blue eyes locking onto mine.
“Sleep well?” she asked, her voice tight with controlled anger.
“Like the dead,” I said, leaning against the doorway. “You read the book.”
“I read a fairytale written by a narcissist who thinks he’s the hero of every story he tells,” she shot back, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pulled the shirt tight across her breasts, and my cock stirred. Fuck.
“Is that what you think it is? A fairytale?” I pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the cell. “What about the words on the torc, Eva? The ones you read? The ones you can probably still feel burning into your palm?”
I watched her throat work as she swallowed. She couldn't deny it and I gave her a half-second to lie, and I was going to enjoy every second of watching her fail.
“It’s a story. Nothing more.”
“Then why are you still here?” I countered, my voice dropping to a low murmur. “The door’s been open all night. You could have been in Nashville by now, counting your blood money from the torc. But you’re still here. In my cage. Wearing my shirt.”
Her gaze flickered down to the shirt, then back up to my face. A flash of something, conflict, maybe, crossed her features, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“Maybe I just like the accommodations,” she said, the sarcasm a thin shield over the tremor in her voice.
I took another step, closing the gap between us. I could smell her familiar scent: jasmine, cheap cloves, and something that was purely, uniquely Eva. It was much better than the leftover smell I caught on the mountain last time, and my body responded in kind.
“Let me tell you what’s going to happen, Eva,” I said, my voice a low growl. I reached out and brushed my thumb over her lower lip. She flinched, a full-body shudder, but she didn’t pull away. So brave.
“I’m going to touch you,” I said, my gaze boring into hers. “I’m going to taste you. I’m going to bury myself so deep inside you that you forget every man you’ve ever met, every name you’ve ever had. I’m going to make you remember what it feels like to be a goddess’s priestess. And then,” I leaned in, my lips brushing against her ear, “I’m going to make you mine.”
She stood there, rigid, her breath catching in a small, audible hitch. I could feel the rapid, frantic beat of her pulse against my thumb.
Then she spat in my face.
It wasn’t a wad of spit like last night, just a fine spray, a spray of pure, unadulterated contempt.
I straightened up slowly, wiping the moisture from my cheek with the back of my thumb. I looked at her, and I laughed. A genuine, rumbling laugh that echoed in the small cell before I licked her spit off my thumb.
“That’s the spirit,” I said, my smile widening. “That’s my Evangeline.”
She narrowed her eyes, her face a mask of fury. “Don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name,” I said, my tone losing its humor, turning hard as granite. “It’s the only name that matters. Everything else is just a borrowed coat you wear until it’s time to die.”
I turned and walked out of the cell, leaving her standing there, trembling with rage and something else. Fear? Desire? They were the same damn thing when it came to us.
I stood in the tunnel for a long moment, listening to the ragged sound of her breathing and the frantic pounding of her heart, before I went upstairs. The cage is waiting for me.